


Real Contact

by PastelCaterpillar



Category: It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia
Genre: Gen, Mentions of Prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-27
Updated: 2019-12-27
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:08:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21986401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PastelCaterpillar/pseuds/PastelCaterpillar
Summary: Cricket agrees to help the reader with something he thought would be easy. Turns out, it's a lot more...intimate than he expected. Stfu I know this is weird as hell but I love Cricket ok ,,,, leave me alone ,,, boy needs love too.
Relationships: cricket/reader
Comments: 1
Kudos: 12





	Real Contact

**Author's Note:**

> been working on this off and on for an eternity. i was always too embarrassed to continue it but uhhhhh it's 2019 man i can write whatever i want as long as im not hurting anybody. if cursed sunny writers can have the reader fuck dennis, then gosh, i can have the reader give cricket little hugs and head pats ok ,,,,, thanks

An angelic and comforting hand is grazing through his short, damp hair as he stands idly in place. He’s completely nude, bare, with all those ghostly markings of past injuries open to the world. Worn, red pieces of cloth have been placed around his neck, coming down delicately to wrap carefully around his frail, starved form. They look as though they’ve been meticulously draped all over his pale, naked figure, as if the statue of David himself suddenly burst to life and primped him up so that he could take his place. His bare feet, covered in various scars and scratches, rest flat against the surface of the box he’s perched on top of. Of all of the favors he’s done for money or booze, _this one_ has made him feel the most exposed. He’s had a countless number of stranger’s disgusting cocks in his mouth, inside his body, all over his face. He’s been smacked around and willingly abused for even the cheapest of sixers. The amount of cum he’s swallowed in the last decade could rival the most active of pornstars. _But this_? Being treated warmly, while his nude glory is admired for something beyond the realm of meaningless sex? It’s absolutely fucking _terrifying_. A small voice inside his head is telling him to run, to head back to the bar he was found in. At least there, the Paddy’s gang could tear his self-esteem down again, just like he deserves. He can’t be treated like this. He can’t be treated with fairness and patience. It’s far too foreign, and he’s way too sensitive for it. With flushed, tinted cheeks, he sighs quietly. It’s a sigh coming from one, small part relaxation, and two, major parts nervousness. The hand running through the blonde of his hair stops to pick out what looks to be a…leaf? Maybe a twig? No surprise. And the person standing in front of him, someone so normal in comparison to him, breaks the silence between them in a single beat of calm.

“Y’know,” they suggest kindly, “your hair is so soft when you wash it.” They’re pulling his head forward into their chest so they can pick out whatever’s left of the messy debris in his hair. The small pinch of a fingernail against his scalp catches his attention for only a second, and then suddenly, the sensation is over. And he’s left to focus on the scent of another person so close to him. He should’ve done a better job of washing his hair out. Perhaps then, he wouldn’t have to be in such close proximity to another human being, let alone someone like them. Someone who cared so much about his physical and mental health. Yeah...uh..fuck that. “If you ever need another shower, Matty, you can always come here, okay?”

They’re using his real name again, his given name. He hasn’t heard that name in years. He hates being called that. It’s Cricket now. He’s nothing more than Cricket, and he’s come to accept that. It’s who he is. Who he was meant to be, forever. For the rest of his miserable life.

“It’s _uh_ …Cr-er-“ he tries to search for the right words as the other takes a few steps backwards. Their movements cause him to forget his thoughts for a moment. The one, sparkling blue eye of his that still has decent sight, notices that Y/N is now observing his stance. They’re probably trying to decide whether or not it’s time to begin their session together. He swallows impatiently, waiting for the careful touches and caring glances to stop. Clearing his throat for a moment, his scratchy voice attempts to make itself known again, “I’m Cricket, alright? I go by Cricket now, Y/N.” At this, they smile sweetly, seemingly unphased. _Goddammit_.

“Okay, Cricks.” Their quiet voice speaks without a lick of hesitation. With a step forward this time, their small hands reach out to grasp his right wrist. The touch is electric, and the weakened willpower within him is practically begging him to ignore the sensation. His arm is soon being brought up to rest above his head, in the air. His palm is tilted upward, as if holding something towards the ceiling, “Other hand on your hip, please?” Y/N asks casually, and he does what they ask without a single second wasted.

There he stands, one hand on his hip, the other raised up and facing towards the sky. The delicate, red cloth drapes perfectly down his arm, around his pale torso, and down his thin leg. Another piece of cloth of the same color is wrapped around his other arm. He knows he has to look incredibly picturesque, and the realization causes his heart to sink. The vulnerability of his position is eating at him like flies to rotting fruit.

“Breathtaking…” Y/N coos in admiration, walking slowly backwards towards the easel behind them. Their feet are bare and probably cold against the tile floor below. The hands that had been touching his hair moments ago are now clasped together in chipper excitement. As they finally make their way towards the easel, a small, green crayon in hand, there’s suddenly a pause. “W-Wait!” The other hand of theirs points towards him, making a turning gesture, “Can you turn your face a little the other way?? I wanna capture those scars. They’re _amazing_.”

_Amazing_ , huh? Surely they were joking. They’d spent a fair amount of time together before, and never had Y/N called his facial scars “amazing.”

Then again, they never did call him hideous either.

The two of them had been fairly close acquaintances for a few months or so before Y/N had asked him for the favor. They’d chatted a few times at Paddy’s, and walked around the alleyways of the city during their time outside of the bar. he'd found their friendship extremely abnormal. He’d never had any idea as to why someone as perfectly average as them would want to spend time with someone as low on the food chain of life as him, but in the moments they’d asked their favor, it all became clear. Ah, yes, _favors_. Always favors.

Okay, so, maybe not  _ clear _ . It was more like,  _ slightly  _ opaque. So much about everything with them remained incredibly confusing. Like, why in the hell did displaying his nude body in front of someone like them for the sake of art make him shake like a leaf? Why did exposing himself like this, scars and all, cause his stomach to curl in discomfort. When their soft eyes had gazed upon the unmentionable parts of him for the first time, not with the intention of using or abusing him, why did he feel so embarrassed? He’d been through every kinky horror imaginable, but this experience was gonna be the one to kick his ass?

“You’re awful quiet today, Ma- _hm_ -Cricks.” There it was, the never-ending compassion in their voice, “Are you feelin’ okay, bud?” They asked gently, and his ears were suddenly drawn to the sound of crayon against paper. The drawing had already started, and he’d been too caught up in his thoughts to even realize it. Regardless, their words weighed down on his mind like the world upon atlas, and he founds himself not wanting to respond.

A silence remained.

The smooth whisper of their hand gliding the crayon along the surface of the page came to a sudden stop. And that sound, the sickeningly sweet chime of their voice, breaks perfect quietness again.

"Crickey, honey, if you're uncomfortable doing this then you gotta tell me, okay?" He blinks, watching with a careful eye as his friend begins to take small, delicate steps in his direction, "I'm not gonna fight you about it or anything. We can call it quits and throw on a movie or somethin', yeah?" He swallows a dry lump building inside his damaged throat. With a sigh, and movements which seem slower than time itself; he lowers his arms and lets the soft, red fabric cascade to the floor. He shakes his head, staring at the blistering bright light in the ceiling, hoping somewhere inside his fucked up head that the fixture will somehow blind him completely.

"I'm...I'm sorry, Y/N." He says through a scratch in his voice, "I don't-I'm not sure…"

"It's okay. You don't have to explain yourself, sweetheart." He falters for a fraction of a second, feeling the earth beneath him crumble into pieces at the mere mention of the word " _sweetheart_." It's too compassionate. It's too much. What the fuck is going on? Why are they saying shit like this? He groans. "Do you wanna leave?" 

"No, _I_ -" Another sigh, another groan, another aching pain in his chest, "-I'm just...a little overwhelmed right now."

"That's okay. Do whatever you need to do. If you need to go, go. If you need me to leave, I'll leave. Just tell me how you're feeling so I can understand, okay?"

He moves a foot from the pedestal he's standing on, down to the freezing floor below. The sensation against his toes sends an uncomfortable chill up his spine. 

"I'm not really sure what I need right now. Maybe a beer? A fix of somethin' else?" 

"Could I hold you instead?" 

His other foot nearly loses its balance while making contact with the tile. He almost falls to his knees, but quickly catches himself before it can happen. The heart beating in his chest shifts into a rhythm more rapid, and his breath hitches. _Contact_? They want to make more contact? Close, human contact? Not false contact. Not for anything in return. For a moment, he wonders if this is another hallucination. Did he snuff something before he came here? Is any of this even real? At the thought, he stumbles forward. Time seems to move painfully slow, his feet fumbling beneath him as he waits for his nude form to collide with that freezing floor below. Both of his eyes fall closed. Perhaps the pain of falling to the ground will ease his confused mind. After all, that's where he belongs anyways, right? Below everyone else, writhing in pain.

Only, his body doesn't connect with the floor. 

Instead, there's a warm sensation enveloping him all around, almost like a large blanket. It comes out of nowhere, so unexpected. It causes his eyes to dart open in a frantic search for what's surrounding him. They're...arms. Arms bearing human heat, connected to another human chest, with another human heart...beating. _Beating_. And suddenly, those broken eyes of his begin to water. He clutches onto the other person weakly, with shaking hands. 

**Author's Note:**

> :'-)


End file.
